Telling Ghosts
by DarkHorse1
Summary: Another story dealing with the aftermath of the fall. Sherlock returns to face Sebastian Moran alone, but he didn't count on a cynical Russian former special agent getting involved. No Johnlock, no romance.
1. Echoes and Spectres

_Quick notes: I'm not British, this isn't "britpicked." I'm also not Russian, thanks google translate. I started writing this probably before season 3 was, so it's been a work in progress for a while. Also means no Mary. She may or may not appear later, but don't hold your breath. Also no Johnlock. Or romance at all, really._

Echoes and Spectres  


It was just after seven in the evening and misting as Sherlock exited the tube station at Bethnal Green. He was back in London after nearly three years away, but as much as he wanted to head back to 221B, home, he needed to be patient. After spending the past eight days madly chasing Moriarty's last man from Bali to London, Sherlock was at the limit of his transport. The small skirmish he'd been involved in at the Ukrainian border two nights ago hadn't helped matters either; there was a half inch deep furrow in his left side left by a bullet that continued to bleed sluggishly.

Recovery and discretion were the goals at the moment, which was why he was currently breaking into a flat. He'd watched the owner leave forty seven minutes ago. She carried a thin white cane and kept one hand firmly on a railing as she went down the four steps leading out of the building. A blind woman would fit the discretion portion of his plan perfectly.

The door popped open and Sherlock moved quickly into the woman's home, removing his coat as he did so. He peeled off the mist-dampened button down shirt, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as it pulled the wound open again, sending a fresh trickle of blood to the waistband of his pants. He sat down heavily on the couch, intending to rest a moment.

Sherlock was awoken by a door slamming.

The woman kicked the interior door closed with another slam and walked to the kitchen to drop off a few bags of groceries. She set her cane against the kitchen table, shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the back of a chair before beginning to unpack the grocery bags. She had a jar of jam in one hand and turned to put it in the refrigerator before freezing in place, one foot slightly raised, and cocked her head toward the living room where Sherlock sat. She inhaled deeply through her nose. "I hope you don't plan on robbing me. I don't have anything," she said and put the jar in the fridge.

"No," he said, trying to place her accent. It wasn't quite British; there was something Eastern European about it. He hadn't meant to be caught by the homeowner and certainly wanted nothing to do with her, but her reaction piqued his interest.

"Well that's good, I suppose," she said and continued to put groceries away. "Who are you and what are you doing in my home if not to rob me?"

"I needed a place to stay."

She huffed. "There's a homeless shelter not far from here. You should try there."

"I'm not homeless," Sherlock said and stood up. He winced again, his time on the couch having done nothing to ease his aches. If anything, he felt worse.

The woman snorted, walked right up to him and stopped less than a foot away. She leaned in a bit and sniffed. "You certainly smell like it," she frowned, and said "You're bleeding. Do you need an ambulance?"

"I'm fine," he breathed. The constant adrenaline of the past eight days was wearing off and he was going to crash. Stupid. Sherlock hadn't made a mistake this dangerous since...

"That's the most blatant lie I've heard all day." She reached out towards him and managed to run her hand down his upper arm. "I'm not going to ask why you're shirtless, but you've got a fever." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the hallway to the bathroom. "You might as well strip the rest of the way. Take a cool shower."

"I hardly think that's necessary," Sherlock said and weakly tried to pull away. She held firm.

"If you're going to stay here for any length of time, you need to shower. You reek so bad I can taste it. Now strip. Don't be shy," she added with a saucy wink.

Sherlock sighed. He was too tired to argue, and she did have a point. He began to remove the rest of his clothing.

"Good," the woman said. "I'll see if I can find something for you to wear, because I doubt that whatever you had on is going to be wearable or even sanitary," she called as she walked away.

Sherlock turned on the shower and stepped in. In addition to his side, there were numerous other minor cuts and scrapes that stung as he washed. He heard the bathroom door open and close and figured she must have found something. Based on what he already deduced about her, she lived here alone, so it was unlikely she would have men's clothes on hand. She was also a good eight inches shorter and a bit thinner than Sherlock.

He finished showering and got out, glancing at what she left him and frowning. She did not have men's clothing. There was a bathrobe that barely hit his knees and a pair of track pants that were also far too short. Deciding the bathrobe was useless, he tossed it aside. A vague sense of modesty made him struggle into the pants, but he'd much rather wear a sheet.

There was a knock on the door and he opened it for the woman.

"Feeling a little better? Why don't you come back into the living room so I can take a better look at you," she said, and grabbed his wrist again.

"I don't see how you can 'look' at me, and you don't need to lead me around like a lost puppy. I can find my way to another room, thank you," Sherlock remarked dryly and removed his wrist from her grasp.

"Fine. Go sit down. There's some paracetamol for your fever and some bandages for wherever you're bleeding from. And it's an expression, not meant to be taken literally, smart-ass."

Sherlock sat and took the paracetamol with the glass of water that was on the end table. He set about re-bandaging the wound in his side. "You're awfully...trusting of someone who just broke into your flat," he said as he worked.

She shrugged and sat in the chair opposite him. "Like I said, you seem desperate. What are you running from anyway?"

"Who said I was running?"

"Come on. I may be blind, but I'm not stupid. You break in here, you're injured, you haven't left but you haven't told me your name, so you don't want me to know who you are. If that's not running then I don't know what is. So? The law?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

He rolled his eyes. "No."

"Jilted lover? I can keep going."

"No," he said, a little more forcefully.

"Mafia?"

"Hmph. That's probably the closest."

"Organized crime, eh? Well thanks for getting me involved."

"You're not involved. You don't know who I am, and I don't know who you are. You're merely a convenience. A blind woman that lives alone, and you don't have anyone over regularly enough to tell you that one of your kitchen chairs is broken, and judging by the amount of dust around it, has been for some time. Dust is also an indication that you don't have many visitors. Even blind you'd want to make your home clean for guests. You don't have guests because even though you haven't immigrated recently, you still don't have friends. That could be due to your disability or your immigrant status, probably both. In fact, even if you had friends, you probably wouldn't bring them here anyway, it being a poorer neighborhood. You're a proud woman; you're ashamed of living in this area, but it's all your disability payments will allow you to afford."

The woman was silent for a few moments, looking in his direction with narrowed eyes, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

"Finally decided to call the police?"

"Tempting, but no," she said, and pushed a button on the phone. It announced the time, 9:38pm. "How do you know all that?"

"It's what I do."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, you can tell me more about myself tomorrow morning. You should get some sleep. I should warn you, I do have a gun, so if you break into my bedroom I will shoot in your general direction," she said, and left.

 _No regard for her own safety,_ Sherlock thought. He picked his coat up from where he dropped it on the floor near the couch and retrieved his phone.

Need clothes- SH

Welcome back, brother.- MH

 _Most of this was written while listening to Puscifer's "Conditions of My Parole" album. Gotta love Maynard James Keenan._


	2. Paramount and Pompous

It was a thud at the front door that woke Sherlock this time, and he went to investigate. There was a paper wrapped package just outside. He brought it in and was closing the door behind him when he noticed the woman "watching" him from the hall.

"Good morning. That's for you, I take it?"

"Correct. I had...an associate drop off some clothes."

"Mmm. Probably a good thing since I tossed yours in the bin. There was no saving them. You want any breakfast?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer went to the kitchen and brought out a loaf of bread and popped a few slices into the toaster. She turned back to him just as he was pulling on his new pair of pants and said, "I never asked how you knew I was an immigrant."

"Simple. You have an accent."

"No I don't."

"Well, to anyone who cares to listen or is not an idiot, you do. You hide it well, and your English is fluent, if a bit uncultured, but the signs are there."

She rolled her eyes at "uncultured" and said, "Where'd I come from, then?"

"Russia. Could have been any Slavic language, but statistically speaking, your accent is far more likely to be Russian," he said, slightly muffled due to the shirt he was tugging over his head, and sat at the kitchen table.

She nodded. "That's pretty impressive. You said this is what you do; you just go around telling people where their accents are from and how lonely they are, or is there more to it than that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course there's more."

The toast popped up. "Show me," the woman said, and spread some jam on a slice. She slid it across the table towards him and got one for herself.

"You haven't been blind all your life, in fact it's only been within the last...ten years that you've lost your sight. You carry yourself well in here and only rely on the cane outdoors, but even though you've been in this flat awhile you're still unsure of the stairs leading outside. There could be medical reasons for your blindness; stroke would be one, but you're far too young for that. That leaves trauma. Surviving major trauma to the visual cortex of the brain is exceedingly unlikely, so that leaves damage to the eyes themselves. You came to this country after the blindness, otherwise you would have less of an accent. You don't have any family. If you did, you would be with them so they could assist you, but you're here on your own, so that tells me whatever lead to your blindness happened in Russia. You were already fluent in English, so Britain was a logical choice. Allowing a strange man to spend the night after he broke in to your home shows me that you care little for your own safety."

"Spot on, for the most part," she said around a mouthful of toast.

"What did I get wrong?"

"It's been twelve years."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Minor detail."

"And I was shot."

"That's-"

"Improbable, yeah," she said, cutting him off. "And it's not that I don't care; I just have nothing left to lose,"

"The odds of surviving, let alone being functional, after being shot in the head is less than three percent."

"So I've been told."

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sherlock stood to answer it.

"Sit down! Don't answer my door!" the woman snapped.

She jerked the door open a bit angrily and let in a blast of air that smelled of cigars, brandy and what she assumed was a very expensive wool suit. "Ah yes. I'm looking for my recalcitrant younger brother. I do believe he's taken up temporary residence here," said an extremely posh and proper sounding voice from the door.

The woman recoiled a bit and said "Oh God, there's two of you," as he let himself in.

"What do you want, Mycroft? I'm in hiding."

"Not very well. You texted me the address." He turned to the woman, deliberately ignoring her furrowed brow and confused expression as she mouthed his name. "Thank you for looking out for him. I'll take it from here."

"I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft. This is perfect. Besides, we haven't been able to track him down yet."

"Wait, what's perfect? You're not planning on staying here, are you?" the woman asked, her head comically jerking back and forth between the two men.

"Well, yes. Why not?" Sherlock asked, as if it should have been obvious.

"Why not? Why not? You don't live here, we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours, and, no offense, but you're kind of weird."

Mycroft blew a breath out through his nose.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"We don't even know each others' names!" She was shouting now, and her arms were spread wide in an incredulous gesture.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me. I've been out of the country for a while, and I need a place to continue my work in dismantling a vast crime syndicate. There, now you know 'who' and 'why'. Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to send over some essentials."

"You don't know me. I could be a murderer!" She was still shouting.

"I already know what I need to know. You're not a murderer."

"I used to be!"

Sherlock's head snapped to the woman, then to Mycroft, who shrugged. "I haven't had the time to do a formal background check on your new landlady. I only know her name and that she is here legally."

"You _don't_ know everything. Hah!" she crowed as Mycroft fired off a text.

"I shudder to think what kind of security threats your people are letting in to the country," Sherlock said.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock as his mobile beeped. "Ah. Here we are. Major Liolya Anatolyevna Verednikov of an Alpha Group division based in Krasnodar, veteran of the second Chechen war. Discharged on 14th October, 2003 after being shot during a mission which killed three of her teammates. Awarded...quite a few medals."

Liolya whistled. "Damn that was fast. Don't let the medals fool you. The Russians hand them out like vodka. You get medals for parenting if you've got enough kids."

"Are you certain you want to stay with this woman, Sherlock?"

"Quite," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighed. "I see. Very well." He turned to Liolya. "Do keep an eye on him for me," he said without irony, and headed for the door. Just before leaving he called to Sherlock, "I'll have some clothes and other necessities sent over as soon as I am able."

"So, am I to call you 'Major' now?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, after the door closed behind Mycroft.

Ignoring his tone, she replied, "Nah, 'Lio' is fine. You can't tell me you're completely surprised by that. By the way you've figured out everything else about me, I would've thought something like 'special forces training' would've been a flashing sign."

"It was...unexpected. Your recklessness makes a little more sense, knowing your former abilities."

"'Former?' I can still kill a man bare handed. I just need to be pointed in the right direction and he needs to stay still while I feel for him."

"Self-deprecating humor is your defense mechanism."

"Don't start that deduction shit again. So what do you plan on doing here? My life's pretty boring."

"As soon as I locate the last agent, I will leave."

"And you expect that to be any second now? Because honestly, I don't think you're in any shape to do much of anything. You've probably still got a low fever, and your injuries haven't magically disappeared overnight. You should rest," she said.

"I can't do anything until Mycroft brings me a computer anyway," Sherlock said, with a huff of annoyance.


End file.
